Texas Swamp Fever (9781101611890) Read online

  SNAP, CRACKLE, GULP

  Everyone was in a mood to match the swamp. After a hasty breakfast, they packed up and moved to the boats.

  The same trooper who had been last on sentry duty stepped to the rope that secured one and stooped to unfasten it.

  The water exploded. Out of it hurtled a reptilian behemoth, its jaws spread wide. Before the trooper could recoil or cry out, the alligator’s mouth clamped shut with awful force. Bones cracked and blood spurted, and the next instant the gator was hauling its quarry back into the water.

  It happened so fast, everyone was rooted in shock.

  Fargo recovered first, and snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he took a hasty bead between the alligator’s eyes. He thumbed back the hammer—and the gator went under. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Fort Death, the three hundred seventy-fourth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Looking Forward!

  The Trailsman

  Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

  The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

  1861, the Texas swamp country—where there are a hundred ways to die.

  1

  If looks could kill, Skye Fargo would be dead. He saw distrust and dislike on every face, in every glare.

  A big man, wide at the shoulders and slim at the waist, he rode into Suttree’s Landing with his right hand on his hip above his Colt. His lake blue eyes betrayed no more concern than if he was out for a stroll in a Saint Louis park, but Suttree’s Landing was a far cry from a civilized city like Saint Louis. It was a backwater hamlet at the edge of the Archaletta Swamp, and the people were suspicious of strangers.

  Fargo didn’t care. He had a job to do, and any jackass who gave him trouble would find out the hard way he wasn’t a cheek-turner.

  The Landing wasn’t anything to brag about. Most of the people lived in shabby shacks that wouldn’t stand up to a strong prairie wind. But there wasn’t much wind in the swamp, except when it stormed.

  The general store, the hub of commerce for miles around, alone among all the buildings in the hamlet had glass in its windows.

  The people were a mix of white and half bloods and a few Indians. Tame Indians, they were called, to set them apart from the wild ones that lived deep in the shadowed haunts of the vast swamp.

  Sullen, sharp-eyed, the inhabitants watched Fargo and those behind him come down what passed for a street. On every face was the stamp of hardship and poverty, even the children.

  Fargo drew rein at a hitch rail and dismounted.

  Several locals were lounging against the wall and eyed him much as hungry wolves might eye a buck. Unshaven and unkempt, they wore clothes that a Saint Louis beggar wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  One had a wad in his cheek and spat brown juice near the Ovaro’s front hoof, which brought snickers from the others.

  Fargo stared at him until the spitter shifted his weight and frowned.

  “I don’t much like being looked at, mister.”

  “Spit at my horse again and you won’t have a mouth to spit with.”

  The man smirked. “Is that right?”

  Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. “It sure as hell is.”

  Some of the smug went out of the spitter. “You’d shoot a man who ain’t heeled?” All he had around his waist was a middling-sized knife.

  “A man spits on my horse,” Fargo said, “he has it coming.”

  “Here now,” said a beanpole in a shirt two sizes too small. “You can’t just ride in and talk about shootin’ folks.”

  “That’s right,” spoke up a heavyset brute with more eyebrow than forehead. “Bodean can spit where he damn well pleases.”

  Their tone made Fargo bristle. “Anytime any of you reckon you are man enough,” he said.

  The beanpole strai
ghtened and his thin lips curled back from yellow teeth. “Listen to you. You think you’re the cock of the walk, don’t you?”

  “It’s easy enough to find out.”

  By then the rest of Fargo’s party had filed out of the woods and drawn rein. The lead rider, who sat ramrod straight in his saddle and didn’t seem entirely comfortable in his store-bought suit, cleared his throat.

  “That will be quite enough, if you please, Mr. Fargo. I’m sure these gentlemen meant no disrespect.”

  “Like hell they didn’t,” Fargo said.

  The lead rider climbed down. Only a few inches over five feet, he carried himself as if he were taller. His boots were polished to a shine and the revolver on his left hip was worn in a holster with a flap. He nodded at the swamp rats and said, “How do you do. I’m Ma—” Catching himself, he changed it to, “I’m James Davenport. Would this be Franklyn Suttree’s establishment?”

  “Franklyn?” the spitter said, and snorted. “Hereabouts we call him Sutty.”

  “Ain’t you somethin’?” the beanpole said, “in your fancy duds.”

  “City boy,” said the one with eyebrows like thick caterpillars.

  Davenport wheeled on him. “I’m older than you, I’ll have you know.”

  Fargo couldn’t resist. “Take it easy,” he said, and threw Davenport’s remark back at him. “I’m sure these gentlemen meant no disrespect.”

  Just then another member of their party dismounted. Even taller than Fargo, he had arms as thick as tree trunks and a face that might have been forged on an anvil. He, too, wore a new store-bought suit. He, too, wore a flapped holster. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked Davenport. “Say the word and we’ll deal with it.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Morgan,” Davenport said.

  The rest of their party were climbing down.

  Fargo saw the three locals give a start and their mouths fall open, and he knew why without turning. The next moment he smelled her perfume, and inwardly swore. He’d been against bringing her but the government insisted she had to come.

  “We’ve finally arrived,” Clementine Purdy declared. “I swear, it took us forever to get here.” She had big green eyes and full red lips and a bosom that bulged farther than most. A bonnet contained brunette curls and her shoes were of the finest calf leather.

  “Hell, lady,” Fargo responded in annoyance, “we haven’t even started yet.”

  Davenport frowned. “Need I remind you that she is a lady, and an important one? I’ll thank you to watch your language around her.”

  “Please,” Clementine Purdy said. “Mr. Fargo may speak as he pleases.”

  “Not while I’m in charge,” Davenport said.

  Fargo noticed that Bodean and the other two were listening with keen interest.

  “In charge of what, mister?” Bodean asked. “Who are you folks, anyhow?”

  “We’re a hunting party out of Galveston,” Davenport fed them the lie.

  Fargo had warned the major that few if any of the locals would believe it, and he could see by the expressions on Bodean and his two friends that he had been right.

  “You came all this way to hunt?” the beanpole said skeptically. “Ain’t there any deer and bear around about Galveston?”

  Davenport adopted a knowing smile. “If deer and bear were all we were after, we could have spared ourselves the trip. But we’re after more dangerous game. A type that abounds in this great swamp of yours.” He paused. “We’re after alligators.”

  The beetling brows of the heavyset man met over his nose. “There’s plenty of gators hereabouts, sure enough. But I never heard tell of folks comin’ all the way from Galveston or anywhere else to hunt ’em.”

  “Damned peculiar,” Bodean said.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Davenport cheerfully told them.

  “Why in hell would you want to hunt gators?” the beanpole asked.

  “I’ve hunted for years,” Davenport expanded on his lie. “Everything under the sun, from grizzly and mountain sheep in the Rockies to buffalo and antelope on the prairie. Now I intend to try my hand at something new. Game that will challenge my mettle.”

  “Challenge your what?”

  “Test my ability,” Davenport said.

  “Gators?” Bodean said.

  “Gators,” Davenport said, and motioned at Fargo and Morgan and Clementine Purdy and the four other men in new store-bought suits. “We’ll be heading into the swamp in the morning and will require the services of a guide. Perhaps you would be so kind as to spread the word?”

  “Mister,” the beanpole said. “My name is Cleon, and I’ve lived in this swamp all my life. Take my advice and turn around and go home. It ain’t no place for you and yours.”

  “It’s where the gators are,” Davenport said.

  “And a lot more things, besides,” Cleon said. “There’s water moccasins and copperheads. There’s bogs and quicksand. There’s swamp bears, which are meaner than any you’ll find in your Rockies, and painters, cats that can pull a man from his horse and drag him off—”

  “You exaggerate, surely,” Davenport said.

  “. . . and there’s the Injuns,” Cleon went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Some are peaceable but a lot more ain’t. You could end up in their cookin’ pot if’n you ain’t careful.”

  “Are you suggesting some of them are cannibals?” Davenport said.

  “Used to be a lot that were, back in the old days. Now it’s just the one tribe but that one tribe is enough.” Cleon lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Ain’t you heard of the Kilatku?”

  The Kilatku were just one of scores of little-known tribes that lived in the uncharted watery fastness along the Texas and Louisiana coasts. Where a lot of the other tribes had at least some dealings with whites, the Kilatku had none whatsoever. Every white man who dared enter their territory never came out again. It was part of the reason Fargo and the others were there, and about to risk their lives in what he considered a damn silly enterprise.

  “You talk too much,” Bodean snapped at Cleon.

  “They’ve got a female, consarn you,” Cleon said. “They need to know.”

  “We look after our own, not outsiders,” Bodean growled. He unfurled and headed up the street. “We’ve talked to them enough. Let’s go.” He pointed at the man with the caterpillar eyebrows. “You, too, Judson.”

  “Charming fellow,” Davenport said.

  “A viper is more like it,” Fargo said.

  Clementine Purdy adjusted her bonnet. “Really, Mr. Fargo. I’ve only known you a short while but you strike me as terribly cynical. The gentleman called Cleon warned us about the Kilatku, didn’t he?”

  “You already knew about them.”

  “We were all thoroughly briefed,” Clementine said. “We know what we are letting ourselves in for.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have no damn idea what you’re in for, but you’re going into the swamp anyway.”

  “So are you and Major Davenport and Sergeant Morgan and these other soldiers,” Clementine said.

  “We’re men,” Fargo said.

  “Ah.” Clementine scowled. “And you consider me a frail female. Is that it?” She sniffed and said, “We all have our duty to perform, I’ll have you know.”

  “Just so it doesn’t get us killed,” Fargo said.

  2

  The general store wasn’t cozy and clean, like most. It was dusty and dark and there was an odor Fargo couldn’t quite peg that made him want to cover his nose.

  Merchandise was heaped on shelves and in bins and barrels in no particular order. Knives, tools, boots, traps of different sizes, whale oil for lamps, lucifers; it had everything a person would need
to live and survive in the great swamp.

  None of it was particularly well kept. Many of the knives and tools had spots of rust. Most of the clothes were used. Instead of a cracker barrel or a pickle barrel there was a salt barrel. Hides hung from the walls, some of them moth-eaten.

  Clementine Purdy scrunched up her nose and said, “My word.”

  Davenport strode to the counter, his hands behind his back, looking as natural and relaxed as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “How do you do, my good man,” he addressed the proprietor. “I take it you are Franklyn Suttree?”

  The big-bellied owner wore clothes that hadn’t seen water in a month of Sundays. He was greasy and dirty and a fly was crawling on his hair. He’d been leaning on his elbows and chewing a toothpick and watching them as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “How do, yourself,” he said. “Folks call me Sutty.”

  “We have it on reliable authority that you are the man to see about conveyance into the interior of the Archaletta,” Davenport said.

  “Huh?” Sutty straightened. “Can you say that again in little words?”

  Fargo noticed a dead rat hanging by twine from a rafter. “We hear you rent boats.”

  “Oh,” Sutty said. “Who told you that?”

  “Friends of ours,” Davenport said.

  “Who might they be?”

  “That’s hardly relevant,” Davenport said. “We’d like to rent four of your best.”

  “Would you, now?” Sutty said, and snickered. “I only got two and one has a slow leak.”

  “Only two?” Davenport said. “But there are eight of us, plus all our supplies and gear.” He gazed about him as if expecting to see the boats in the store. “How big are these boats of yours?”

  “How about I show you,” Sutty said. He lumbered around the counter and over to a narrow hall. “Follow me, folks.”

  The smells in the back were even worse. Fargo saw a partially butchered hog in one room and in another a gray-haired woman sat in a rocking chair, knitting and chewing tobacco.

  The back door opened onto the landing. Over half a dozen boats of different kinds were tied up, along with several canoes.